This Crazy Life of Ours
by KingsAmongRunaways
Summary: Hi all! This is my first fanfic. Ever. It's just a collection of drabbles that I will be frequently adding to. Any and all reviews/favourites welcomed! Suggestions for what to do are SUPER welcome.
1. Buying Milk Again

John turned to Sherlock. "You want me to do _what?_"

Sherlock Holmes looked at him quizzically. "I need you to buy milk. As soon as possible. Sooner, knowing how long it takes you to do things." The man turned back to his microscope, scribbled something, and mumbled incoherently.

"What was that, Sherlock?" John was exasperated. It was two in the morning.

"I _said,_ you had better leave now. I need it before _dawn_."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, sure Sherlock. Need anything else? A glass of wine, maybe? Some caviar?"

The skinny man didn't say a word. Go figure.


	2. Scene of the Crime

The dark of night. The heart of London. The flash of a knife and start of a scream. It's too late for the police to save the woman; too late to catch the killer; too late to do anything but the routine. Notes. Body. Time of death.

It's like clockwork as people glide around like ghosts. Fitting at a murder scene—they too are dead tonight, in their eyes—and they whisper to themselves as they clean up. All is quiet and somber until a tall man tears around a corner in a trench coat. He's grinning.


	3. The Box

Sherlock Holmes doesn't know where he is, and, seeing as it's him, it's quite alarming. He can't see—a cave? A closet?—and it smells like old cardboard; three-day-old cardboard that was recently slightly dampened. With water and….cold medicine. He acknowledges for a split second that this is an odd scenario. The unbeatable Sherlock is lost in a dark place that smells like the alleyway behind a craft store. Maybe he has been kidnapped, which would be an interesting turn of events.

John watches for five more minutes, and then reaches over and pulls the cardboard box off Sherlock's head.


	4. Going Back

It was his birthday. John slunk around the city, slowly getting closer and closer to Baker St. After spending two hours meandering pointlessly around London, he arrived at his old flat.

He stopped at the door, frozen in place by the though of what he was about to do. An eon later he was climbing the stairs, limping slightly. Damn. One step became two became five became ten. He was at 221b. He stared longingly down the stairs before sighing and pushing open the door.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through dirty windows. The rug lay crumpled and dusty. And it still smelled like him, four months later. It smelled like a mix of ammonia and the night sky, a mix of mystery and a sense of annoyance. It took about thirty seconds until he lay face down on the couch, not moving. It took about a minute for him to start crying, softly, like he was trying to compose himself. It took about two hours for Mrs. Hudson to find him. She sat with him for a long time.

John didn't want to leave. Didn't want to abandon the weird smell that lingered in the fridge, the smiley face on the wall—reminders of a man too clever for his own good, too clever to live. He stayed until he fell asleep.

Right before he did, he swore he heard a low voice whisper, "Happy birthday, John."


	5. Just Tea

John walked through the kitchen, stopped, and slowly stepped back in. Sherlock was hunched over the table—looking not unlike a raven—wearing a sheet. So far, so good. The thing that had worried John in the first place was that Sherlock was crying. He was completely silent, barely moving, and crying. Sherlock did not cry.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine."

His voice was pinched. John knew he was lying; even the great detective couldn't put up a façade that well. He stepped around his friend and made two cups of tea. He passed one to Sherlock, who grabbed at it absentmindedly. When it was clear he did not intend on moving, John lightly took hold of his wrist. Sherlock let himself be pulled up out of his seat and over to the couch. He sat staring at the wall. John waited. Half and hour later Sherlock turned to his blogger.

"I'm not sure why you do this, but thank you."

John just nodded and got up to have a shower.


	6. Happy Ending

Sherlock toyed with the envelope he had on the table. Front side, back side. Front side, back side. He let out a small sigh.

"What're you doing? You've been sighing dramatically for the pas—"

John stopped when he saw the envelope crinkling between Sherlock's slender fingers. It was brown paper, small and plain. It was also stamped with a red wax seal, embossed with a bird. John walked across the room and plucked the envelope away from Sherlock.

"Where are you going with that?"

"Getting rid of it."

"Why?" Sherlock was staring at the letter like it was a new kind of tobacco ash.

"Why? Well, he's gone. You don't need this in your life."

Sherlock gave a ghost's smile to his blogger, ran one hand through his hair, and said nothing.

"Also Sherlock, every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned—"

"—oh, don't start."

"…a good old-fashioned _happy_ ending."


End file.
